


Better Off

by thequibblah



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Muggle, Angst, Denial of Feelings, F/M, Porn With Plot, i mean... is this plot??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:46:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23672521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequibblah/pseuds/thequibblah
Summary: She thinks of that moment often, in fragments of half-memory, half-sensation: the grape tartness in her mouth, how his lips parted when he took her in, and then his smile, sudden and perfectly natural, his dimple a groove she wanted to trace.
Relationships: Andromeda Black Tonks/Ted Tonks
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	Better Off

**Author's Note:**

> i know this is not a come together update but i had to get this out of my system, ha. sometimes we write smut during a global pandemic to cope?? anyway comments and kudos appreciated xoxo

The wedding is over, but Andromeda has wormed her way out of going home. _I’ve got stuff at uni I need for Easter_ , she told her parents, which was a load of bunk, and they did grumble a bit about it. But in the end they let her take a car back to Hogsmeade. She knows she should head to the flat, get the things she really does need at home. Her toothbrush, for instance. Her hand cream. She can’t bring herself to, though, so she just walks around the village in her beautiful dress, with its hand-sown pearls and swishing skirt. After a while her shoes begin to pinch her feet, so she takes them off and lets them dangle from her hand as she goes. It's already dark; the streetlights have long since blinked on. She swears she’s walking aimlessly, but she is headed down the street where he lives, and she has no time to ponder why she’s there before she notices him smoking outside his house, and he sees her. 

_I’ll go_ , she thinks, and she’s about to say this aloud — knowing, after all, that he would see her dress and think of the wedding and all it entailed — but he forestalls her, extinguishing his cigarette under his heel and saying, “D’you want to come in?”

“What?” 

Ted says, with a touch of impatience, “You look freezing. Not to mention you’re going to cut your feet.”

She looks down at her toes, her sky-blue nail varnish stark against the cobbled stone. “My feet are fine. You don’t have to invite me anywhere out of a sense of obligation.”

He has a very open, readable face. She’s always liked that about him; the knowledge that she likes it because she can read him when he cannot read her has not dimmed the feeling. But in this moment he is shuttered away, lips pressed into a tight line. It makes her want to coax him into openness again, and then she is ashamed. This is how it is with her, like she’s a child carelessly dragging a doll on the ground behind her. Thoughtless. Selfish. And no self-awareness makes her any less thoughtless or selfish.

“It’s no obligation,” Ted says finally. “We don’t owe anything to each other, right?”

The lie, _her_ lie, is obviously bitter coming from him. Andromeda automatically hates the sound of it. He gestures to the front door, pulling it open, and she follows.

* * *

It started this year, their third and last at university. They don’t exactly run in the same social circles, and so they remained very much unaware of each other. Probably this was for the best, Andromeda thinks sometimes, because it would all have been so different if they’d been friends. Well — possibly it was also for worse, as she admitted to herself in particularly agonised moments. Worse for him. 

In any case they met at Sophia Yaxley’s house, at a party. It was a big enough space that it felt like several parties at once — all the various social groups invited had carved out their own niches, happy to coexist side by side, and no more. Andromeda spent the early part of the night as she always does: on the deep green settee in Soph’s sitting room, nursing the same glass of blush wine all night but smoking her way through a pack of cigarettes. She prefers the political sort of conversation, as the lone scientist amidst her group of literary theorists and philosophers; when she wants to, she can really get going, gesturing emphatically as she speaks, waving her cigarette around and prompting Sophia to complain about ash on her dress. But that night was a little different, and she didn’t have enough ciggies left in her pack to settle her nerves. So she went to get herself more wine — not her vice of choice, on account of her terrible tolerance for it, but it would have to do tonight. 

Leaving the living room and entering the kitchen was like arriving on a different planet entirely. Andromeda was not blind to who or what she and her friends were: rich twats, the lot of them, alternating between highbrow conversation as proof of the money invested in their educations and high-society gossip as proof of who they knew. That air was absent in the kitchen, even though it was Soph’s kitchen, with its antique cupboards and the vase of lilies that the cleaner changed every morning. Andromeda knew, vaguely, some of this crowd: they had beers in hand, and they were talking about the latest _Star Wars_ movie. 

“Mate,” one of them was saying, “ _space_ doesn’t make it science fiction. It’s a fantasy series in structure and theme. I mean, it’s obsessed with dynasties, yeah?” 

She uncorked the wine bottle, hovering close enough to listen in as she poured. 

“It’s not exactly uninterested in change,” another said; this voice was nearer to her. “There’s a good amount of disruption, not just restoration like your classic— like, say, Tolkien.”

“Honestly—” 

The conversation was moving away from Andromeda, physically. She’d finished refilling her glass, and was steeling herself to reenter the sitting room. Someone leaned against the counter beside her as she stood there, staring into her wineglass, and said, “Are you eavesdropping?”

She startled, looking up; at the same time, she nudged her glass. “Shit,” she said, but he was steadying it before it topple over entirely. Andromeda hissed, wiping at the liquid running down the outside of the glass.

“Careful,” he said — he was the one who’d brought up disruption, she realised, in the conversation she had sort of been eavesdropping on. Andromeda smoothed away any traces of guilt from expression as she looked up, lifting her finger to her mouth absentmindedly to suck away a stray drop of wine. She thinks of that moment often, in fragments of half-memory, half-sensation: the grape tartness in her mouth, how his lips parted when he took her in, and then his smile, sudden and perfectly natural, his dimple a groove she wanted to trace.

It started this year, that night, but really, it started many, many years ago. Vague understandings have a way of becoming plans in the Black household; the vague understanding that Bellatrix would marry Rodolphus Lestrange turned to fact two years ago. So the vague understanding between Druella Black and her old friend Pandora Rosier, concerning Druella’s second daughter and Pandora’s eldest son, coalesced into uncomfortable solidity that summer. There was a marked difference, of course, in growing up hearing Narcissa say, “Dromeda, you’re going to marry Evan someday,” and coming home to dress swatches and invitation options. For Druella, the plan always existed — had always been in motion, even, and had at last begun to accelerate. 

Andromeda returned to uni with a ring on her finger, and her flat, a comfortable, warm space all her own, had felt tainted by the heavy stone reality of it. It was late September then, and the ring was in its box, stowed away in her closet, and her friends miraculously said nothing about her choice not to wear it. It had the impact of a faded bad dream by the time of the party; Andromeda was vaguely aware of the tension of it, had been all night, but it was suddenly drowned out by _this_. 

She’d read an essay once, about the difference between good casual sex and bad casual sex; this was the sort of thing Andromeda perused with faint delight, having had exactly one instance of casual sex in her entire life. This was not like that, nor was it like her largely sexless relationships. This was an insistent and immediate charge. She thought, dimly, that this was what all the songs about electricity and chemistry were talking about. She thought of the essayist, who’d seen a stranger and thought, _yes, I_ want _to fuck him_. They were all right. 

* * *

Andromeda follows Ted through his house: empty of his housemates, for Easter recess, she supposes. It’s in a familiar state of disarray, enough to have her itching to tidy up but nothing like the sort of horror stories you hear about boys living together. She tears her gaze from the books stacked in the sitting room and watches him instead. How he walks with his head down, just a little, like there’s something on his mind. The back of his neck: she’s just tall enough that she can stand on her toes and kiss the skin there. She dismisses this thought just as he opens the back door, gestures to the steps. She sits down and he sits next to her. Andromeda almost points out that this does not solve the problem of her being cold, but bites her tongue. Ted probably does not want her _in_ his house. That’s all.

“How was the wedding?” he says.

“Oh — lovely. A bit over the top, but I suppose that’s what they wanted.” 

He looks at her, and she knows enough to know that he is going to ask her something difficult. “Not how your wedding will be?”

She stifles a sigh. _No_ , on many levels, because this couple at least chose one another. All she says is, “No, a winter wedding’s very different from a spring one.”

They both know that’s not what he means, but they let it lie there. Andromeda leans back, resting her head on the rounded edge of the step above her. She can feel him actively resisting looking at her, at the deep neck of her dress. She hates that she wants him to look. 

“How’s Rosier?” he says, too casually.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,” she says instead of answering that loaded question. “I really am.”

His gaze is trained on the back fence. “You already said that.”

Yes, she has, but she has a tendency to overexplain, to force understanding. She knows that he resents her for it — justifiably — and so she feels compelled to solve it for him. As if it’s an emotion she _can_ solve. She also knows that he does not want to understand, and so he stubbornly resists. This is a gap that cannot be bridged.

“Well, I’m saying it again,” she says, an edge creeping into her voice. “I’m not saying it was good or smart decision-making on my part, but I just wanted—” Like a child, she thinks again, just _want want want_ and throwing a tantrum when she doesn’t get it. “I just wanted someone to kiss me like they wanted me, before my lifetime of being married to him, all right?”

“To kiss you like they wanted you for six months?”

She flinches at that. So it did get a little out of hand. But she could not resist. She’s spent her life resisting temptation, and when it mattered most, she could not.

* * *

They met in her flat more often — simply because she lives alone, and it’s easier that way. Not that things were a big secret. They said hi to one another at parties, smiled in greeting if they passed by on the street. But it was obvious to both of them that they were not going to go on dates. Andromeda can’t remember how this agreement was reached. It was as though it had been there from the very beginning. The engagement seemed to barely factor into it. Of course, she knows she was lying to herself about that a little. How could it _not_ factor into it?

No, that’s a lie. Surely there were some moments untouched by the outside world. Ted tracing her knuckles with a finger and saying, slyly, _for a_ theoretical _physicist you’re very good with your hands_. She smiled and told him, _for a writer you have a dirty mouth_. How he slept so easily in her bed, like a puppy on a warm afternoon. Was the ring watching it all, from the box inside her cupboard?

Something changed, of course. And it all came crashing down with a question — _why don’t we go on a date?_ More accurately, it all came crashing down with her response. _Sorry_ wasn’t enough a week ago. It still isn’t.

* * *

“Well—” Andromeda starts, sitting up again.

“Did he kiss you? Today?”

He still isn’t looking at her. 

“Yes,” she says. She thinks she ought to be wary — even if she has nothing more to lose, the details are better kept to herself. Some truths are too cruel to speak, and he already knows enough. _Right, modern enough that they’ll let you two share a room_ , Ted scoffed when she’d let this detail slip, _but not enough that you pick who you fucking_ marry. 

“So it’s begun, then. Your sad loveless life kissing this bloke who doesn’t want you.” His eyes flick towards her.

She meets his gaze. “Yes.”

It happens so quickly she can’t pinpoint the moment he made the decision. His hand is on her cheek, his mouth on hers. It’s short. A fitting ending. That is what Ted wants it to be — she can see that, clearly. She dimly registers the fact that she is crying.

“I don’t want to go home yet,” she whispers.

He withdraws, but there is genuine regret in his expression. Or so she wants to tell herself. “You can stay,” he says, and he stands up.

She follows, sick with gratitude. She hopes he doesn’t think the tears are a ploy. She can’t cry on command, really. 

“I’ll sleep on the sofa,” she says as they step back inside. She really, really means it.

He slants her an incredulous smile. “Don’t be stupid, Andie. It’s fine.”

The problem with wanting something arrives when you know you don’t deserve it, she thinks.

* * *

Ted gives her a towel and points her to the bathroom. “I know where it is,” she says wryly. He laughs, sheepish. Andromeda wipes away her makeup and gets into the shower, pretending for five minutes that the hot water will wash away everything. When she turns the water off, shaking out her hair and trying not to think too hard about the smell of his shampoo, she hears it: the telltale squeal of the floorboards right outside the bathroom. 

She looks up at the door, holding her breath. She locked the door by force of habit more than anything. But of course he won’t come in without knocking first, so she waits for the knock. The floorboard creaks again; his footsteps retreat. Andromeda huffs out a laugh and dries herself off. 

He gives her a faded tee to sleep in and puts her dress on a hanger. They argue politely about sleeping arrangements again — she repeats that she will sleep on the sofa, and he tells her, again, that she does not have to.

“Unless you want me to sleep on the sofa,” Ted says, and she knows what he means: if _she_ doesn’t want to sleep in the same bed as him, here is her out. 

“No,” she says immediately. “I’m not making you sleep on the sofa in your own house.”

So, the stalemate having been reached, they climb into bed. He smiles at her and turns away, and she hears the exact moment he falls into sleep.

* * *

Andromeda wakes soundlessly and all at once. It’s still dark outside, but moonlight filters through Ted’s curtains. She is facing him, and he is facing her, and his eyes are open too. They reach for each other instinctively, helplessly. She braces her hands against his shoulders, and he cups her face, his other hand squeezing her hip and then slipping between her thighs. This all happens in silence. She keeps her eyes open so she can look at him. His thumb brushes against her mouth, the pressure a question she knows; she parts her lips and he slides a finger between her teeth.

And then Andromeda wakes up, properly this time — she sits upright, pushing her hair from her forehead. It’s morning. The bed is empty. She can hear the shower running.

* * *

That first night, they made some inane conversation about wine and university and being in their final years. It seemed to her, later, that the talking was a formality they both understood had to be passed by first. Kissing him right then felt too presumptuous. At some point she said, “D’you want to get some air?” and jerked her thumb in the direction of the front door.

“Sure,” he said, his tone perfectly innocent. But there was something knowing in his gaze. As they left the kitchen, ducking around a gaggle of stoners, he took her hand. They did not stop outside Sophia’s house, where several partygoers — those who did not know Soph, and therefore did not have the privilege of smoking in her sitting room — were taking smoke breaks. They walked all the way to her flat, hand in hand.

* * *

Andromeda shuffles out of bed and, in a daze, makes her way to the bathroom. The floorboard creaks, announcing her presence. She knows he’s heard it, but she knocks anyway. Then she wonders if he hasn’t heard the knock, perhaps, over the sound of the water, and what if he thinks she’s only walking past to the kitchen? So she tries the door — unlocked — and steps inside the steam-filled bathroom.

She shuts the door and says, “Ted?”

At the same time, he says, “Come in.”

She’s breathing hard, like she ran all the way. She strips off her shirt, and steps into the shower. For a long moment they just stare at each other. The water is at her back, seeping into her hair, running down her shoulders. Andromeda wonders if either of them will ever move, or if they have turned to stone. Maybe the dream hasn’t ended yet. And then Ted’s hands, warm and solid, land on her hips. He pulls her a half-step closer. His thumbs toy with the lace edge of her underwear. 

“I’m not above begging,” she says.

The ghost of a humourless smile appears on his face. “You don’t have to beg,” he says, and he’s sliding off her underwear, pressing her against the misted wall. His mouth finds her shoulder, her neck; she reaches back to tangle a hand in his hair, pulling him closer. The tile is cool against her cheek, the only chill in the world, it seems. Everything else is heat: his body, his breath. 

“Did you sleep with him?” Ted murmurs.

The question, and its tone of casual curiosity, so surprises Andromeda that she answers honestly. “Yes.” It was clinical, like an experiment. She was both within herself and not, watching from afar. 

Ted’s fingers skate across her stomach, lower, lower; she gasps, pulled entirely out of the memory. “Did you think of me?” he asks. _This_ is not a casual question, of course, and she can hear it in his voice this time — the hoarseness of it. 

“I — did.” It was the only break in an otherwise emotionless exchange; Andromeda shut her eyes, let her mind wander, and her thoughts returned to — snagged on, really — Ted. For a time she believed it wasn’t Evan’s hands on her. At the end of it she buried her face in the crook of his neck and moaned, bit down, taking them both by surprise. The twist of shame that followed was not for what happened, not really, but for how. Andromeda wondered if this would be the rest of her life.

“Good,” Ted says now; he moves her hair to her other shoulder, turns his attention to the wet skin he’s uncovered.

“ _Ted_ ,” she says, half a warning, half a gasp. She’s not sure she wants to hear the end of this train of thought.

But he doesn’t relent. “Make sure you think of me, Andie,” he says, and she arches back against him, fingers pressing into the back of his skull. 

She wants to hold more of him, to look at him, so she says, “Wait — wait—” She turns to face him, taking his face in her hands and kissing him. Ted pulls her closer, arms tightening around her. And then there is just this — his mouth on hers, the warm water washing away her tears.


End file.
